


How bees fly

by LeahhJanee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aspergers', Autism, Depression, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, LGBT+, M/M, Suicidal Ideology, Suicidal Thoughts, asd, mental health, soft john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-19 07:13:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeahhJanee/pseuds/LeahhJanee
Summary: It all started with a question from John - albeit one he swore to himself he would never ask. The events that followed weren't exactly the ones John imagined, but then again, when does anything straight-forward happen in 221B?





	1. One

Dr. John Watson never wanted to be a genius. He knew he was intelligent, enough so to perform his duties in his field, and that was all that mattered. Upon meeting Mr. Sherlock Holmes, his views never changed - in spite of his admiration of his companion's remarkable qualities. It must be said, he didn't quite know why the detective valued his company so much. It was never a question he was prepared to ask, and besides, what would be the point? It was almost inevitable the answer would be one he didn't want, after all.

"Well, that was certainly invigorating," spluttered the taller man as they both fell into the flat they shared.  
"That's one way of putting it," John replied, switching the kitchen light on with his frosted fingers.  
"Got her though. Elementary, really. Just a pain she decided to do it in such a location."  
"Yeah, didn't think to mention that to me before recruiting me straight from the surgery?" The doctor asked with a faint chuckle.  
"It's your fault you work there."  
"Someone has to pay the bills Sherlock! You never agree to take money from clients," reasoned John.  
"I wouldn't have to take money from clients even if you worked with me full-time. You would," the detective stated as he  
swished upstairs, leaving Watson to think of a counter-argument.

The attempt failed, and so, after a few weeks, the doctor was putting 100% of his time and energy into the duo's famous  
cases.

"I don't even see why you need me here all the time, Sherlock. You're the one doing most of the work," he came out with suddenly one day. He had no idea where it came from; they had only been sitting at the table enjoying a brew. Filled with instant regret, he looked for answers at the bottom of the mug in his grasp.  
"What?" Holmes' face had arguably never been so puzzled. John decided he couldn't back down now; he had to just go with it. Damn his impulses.  
"Why did you advertise for a flatmate when you get this place for cheap anyway? Surely even if you had no money, Mycroft would've given you some. Even so, you never had to invite me to your cases, but you did. Why? You say you needed an assistant, but as it sounds from Molly and Mike, you were exactly the same before. I can't figure it out," confessed he. The monologue was followed by a long silence from the detective, his head resting on his hands. The doctor had sweat beading upon his palms, so was grateful for the now-cold tea to hide behind. He was debating whether to just leave the idea of a conversation - Sherlock looked almost ill with his paler-than-usual pallor and his thin fingers continually running through his dark curls. He even went as far as to push the chair out from underneath him when a baritone voice pierced the air.  
"John... I..."  
"You alright?" All John's anxieties fell away as his gaze set solely on Sherlock. He was by his side at an instant, crouching beside him, looking up into his face which he was unsuccessfully trying to hide. Crystal clear drops were falling from his ocean-eyes, first slowly, then uncontrollably.  
"Okay, okay," the doctor mumbled into his ear, standing up and awkwardly comforting him from behind. "Sherlock, listen, it's okay, let's just-"  
"What am I supposed to do?!" Cried Sherlock to the heavens, as he quickly but unsteadily stood up from his seat. The room was moving, moving all around him, too fast, too fast for him to follow. He slid down the wall and curled up as a hedgehog does, screaming and crying and hurting and shouting. The pain was emphasised by a succession of rapid assaults on the concrete floor by his fist. John composed himself as easily as only a soldier can and got into action.  
"Sherlock, what's going on?" He softly questioned; a contrast to his forceful approach at stopping anymore damage to Holmes' hand which was happening at the same time. With the offending fist within his grasp, the doctor focussed on Sherlock's face intently. Somewhat intuitively, he cradled his mop of curls and brought it towards him.  
"I can't do it John. It'll ruin everything. It's not normal, Grandad told me. I can't do it John," the detective gasped between loud sobs.  
"What's not normal?" John carefully whispered in his ear, the doctor's care only fueling the tears from the other man.  
"I'm gay. I love you, John, I can't help it, I just do. I'm not normal. You must have seen it, you're a doctor. I'm just a gay, autistic, depressed, stupid excuse for a human, and I'm sorry," Sherlock cried louder than ever, throwing Watson off him and storming out of the flat; the slamming of the door confirming it for a highly confused John.  
"For God's sake, Sherlock," he mumbled to himself, water droplets of his own forming.


	2. Two

John simply didn't know what to do for the best. He was quite used to Sherlock's usual outbursts - if only this was one of them. He would've come back at least an hour ago if so. Checking his phone every five seconds while nervously tapping his feet wasn't getting him anywhere, and there was no way he'd answer the phone (the doctor had already tried too many times). There was nothing else to do but to go on a man-hunt round London.  
"Damn you, Sherlock," he mumbled, slipping his shoes on without bothering to tie them. Hastily decending the stairs, he felt a vibration in his back pocket. His heart stopped for a moment - until he realised it was Mycroft calling him.  
"For God's sake, Mycroft! I thought you were Sherlock," he gasped, leaning slightly on the front door.  
"If only," was the curt reply.  
"How do you-? Actually, never mind. What are you doing about it?" Watson questioned.  
"Nothing."  
"Nothing!"  
"He'll come round soon enough. It's not like he's storming out for the first time, is it?" His calm tone was starting to annoy John more than the interruption.  
"No, Mycroft. But this is different."  
"Nonsense. I know him."  
"You thought you did. I'm going after him, and if you're not gonna help, that's the end of this conversation." His answer was in the form of phone static. Violently cursing his way out of the building, he began to evaluate his options. The police wouldn't care so early in his disappearance - he was technically an adult. Mycroft was being a dick. His parents could hardly do anything. That just left the doctor and his kindness to sort it out. Not for the first time, he thought.He hadn't a lot of time to think about what the detective had told him, so when their paths crossed once more, Watson ended up being a lot less prepared than he would've liked. He had only been out in the December cold for five minutes before the blessed call came through (for real this time). John was told in no uncertain terms he was not to go after him. He was not to touch him. He was not to talk to him. Without even getting a word in edge ways, that was it.

Luckily, the doctor had learnt some of his companion's ways. He called him, he didn't text like usual. Why? There was no sign he was being forced to say those things. Okay, so he was being emotional. Nothing new there. But so emotional as to call John? The man he never even bothered to text when he was going undercover for three months? No. Something was very wrong with him - he sounded even worse than a while ago, back at the flat. And that's saying something. He had to find him fast. But where? Remember... There must be something... Yes! The background of the call - announcing the next train to Epping! Central line then. How do you get from the jubilee line to the central the easiest? Stratford. He must be out of it to be choosing the tube instead of a cab, he thought, as he stumbled into the next available one with haste.John had been unsuccessfully trying to get hold of Sherlock throughout the entire journey. As the sky turned from purple to grey to pitch black, the doctor's heart seemed to be beating exponentially faster. The thought of Sherlock coming to harm, because of somethings he thought were wrong - it was enough to make John feel sick. Luckily, the cab stopped to a halt before his mind ran away with itself completely.

He trawled the massive station with no luck. Trying again and again to get a hold of Sherlock, eventually his phone gave up on him. Practically throwing it into his pocket, he searched on underneath the stars. He headed to Westfields, then to the Olympic Park. Water blurring his vision, he thought he was seeing things when the familiar shadow of his partner was seen in an odd alleyway on the way back to the station. Not that he had given up - he was going back to check Sherlock was definitely not there. Well, he certainly wasn't; there he was, curled up on the hard stone, hidden away from everyone except those who would care to look. He didn't even have his belstaff on.  
"Sherlock!" John cried, encouraging the detective to lift his head off his knees. Even in the dark, the doctor could see pain etched across his face. Sprinting towards him, the curls lolled back down to rest upon their owner. It was a matter of milliseconds before John was crouched in front of him, swiftly examining the situation as best as he could in the less-than-ideal conditions (not to mention the highly-reluctant patient flailing about).  
"Stop it John... Leave me alone..." Sherlock mumbled, raising his head again to glare at his doctor.  
"Shut up Sherlock, you know I'm not gonna leave it. What's wrong?" He exclaimed, grabbing the others' wrist and feeling for a pulse. It was easy enough to find - it was so fast you'd have to be an idiot not to. It was a wonder Sherlock's heart hadn't burst out his chest and started running off its own steam it was so rapid. Carefully stroking the detective's forehead, sweat transferred onto his hands readily.  
"Answer me, Sherlock!" He pleaded again, staring right into his leaking eyes, placing both hands either side of the man's face and leaning closer so he wouldn't have to be so loud.  
"I can't..." Sherlock breathed, a fresh torrent of tears falling onto the doctor's fingers.  
"Listen to me. Right now. I know you think a lot of bad things about yourself. That's probably the understatement of the year, actually. But I need you to know I don't think those things. Autistic? I'm a doctor you know. It was a bit obvious. Did I leave? No. Depressed? Again, a doctor Sherlock, not an idiot. There are things we can do, trust me. And gay? It's fine. It's all fine, Sherlock. What's not fine is this!" John blurted haphazardly, gripping the detective harder than he endeavoured to. There were waterfalls from both sides now, resulting in John's arms being thrown around his companion in despair.  
"Sertraline. Paracetamol. Morphine," Sherlock finally relented. Something in his face told John he still wasn't happy giving up this information.  
"How much?" The doctor demanded. Looking round the ground, he noticed no packets of medicine or syringes. Damn it - that could've told him what he needed to know. Of course Sherlock had planned for this possibility. Before the detective could give him the answer, though, John felt his body go limp in his own.

The doctor's heart did the same.


	3. Three

"No, no, no, Sherlock? Sherlock!" John's efforts of waking him up were wasted. Realising this, he quickly put the detective in the recovery position with rehearsed precision and ransacked his pockets for a working phone. Luckily, he found one. After calling 999, the situation finally dawned on him.  
"Jesus, Sherlock," he mumbled, trying with all his might to find a palpable pulse. The one he found was the complete juxtaposition of what it was just a few moments ago. How long had they been here exactly? Anyway, Sherlock's pulse was as weak, slow and thready as it gets. The doctor knew what was coming.  
"Come on, stay with me. Please. Just until the paramedics get here. Please..." He found himself begging, but to whom exactly he wasn't sure. Whoever it was, they obviously weren't listening.

"John. Are you alright?" Greg Lestrade greeted him fondly, not without pity though. The doctor was amazed at his presence - he was supposed to be on a case in Northern Ireland.  
"Yeah, why are you here? Not in a rude way but-"  
"Oh, um, that case went south pretty quick. They brought in new people," he sighed, plonking himself down in the blue plastic chair next to Watson.  
"Oh. Sorry," he spluttered.  
"Don't be. What's going on?" John realised with a start that Greg doesn't actually know anything besides what he hastily reported on the phone. The memories of the night brought with them fresh tears to fall down his face.  
"Sherlock," he started before being overcome with emotion. Burying himself in his hands didn't help; they still smelled like his companion's aftershave.  
"Okay, okay, easy," Greg comforted with, reaching out a hand. John, to his surprise, took it.  
"He had a bit of a moment at the flat yesterday," he choked, "about things only he can tell you. So, um, yeah. He stormed out. I waited a while - a long while - but he didn't come back like he usually does. So I went after him, found him in an alleyway near Stratford." Lestrade could hardly believe what he was hearing. What did Sherlock have to hide so badly?  
"Oh my God. So he's using again?" The inspector assumed.  
"Not in the way you would think. He overdosed. Deliberately. On multiple things, not all illegal," Watson stammered, examining the ceiling for answers. Letting go of Greg's hand, he proceeded to pace violently along the shiny hospital corridor. Concern instantly etched along Lestrade's face, not just for Sherlock now but for John. The bright lights ahead illuminated it rather unnaturally, not that the doctor noticed with the swarm of medical professionals walking towards him.

He knew what he was walking into, but that didn't make it any less difficult. His companion, his detective, his Sherlock, looked infinitely small in that hospital bed, tubes seemingly coming from every direction. Machines of every sort blared noise continually. John didn't mind; it reminded him Sherlock was still here. Still alive. Because he didn't exactly look like it. They said it was still touch and go, that he had a long way yet, that he was lucky. They clearly hadn't heard of Mr. Sherlock Holmes - the man who restarted his own heart for his doctor. The man who killed for his doctor. The man who will come back for his doctor, he prayed.


	4. Four

Chapter 4

John wasn't quite sure how long it had been before his prayers were answered. He was just grateful they had been. Of course, he was insanely angry at Sherlock - how dare he do that to him? After all they had been through together, after how much they had grown to care for each other? It was at that thought the doctor realised Holmes may not have been aware the feeling was mutual. It was not like he had ever said it out loud. He didn't think he needed to. He was ready to fix that though.  
"Yeah, I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes," he announced to the towering man behind the desk, signing the book with force.  
"He's been refusing visitors," the man sighed, "even his own brother."  
"I'm not surprised," Watson mumbled. He pushed away the sinking feeling in his stomach; there was no reason why he would refuse to see him. He never wanted to see Mycroft, even at the best of times. It didn't stop him biting his lip while waiting for the nurse to ask Sherlock permission, however. When the door was eventually opened again with a satisfactory nod, he released a breath he didn't realise he was holding.

There were fewer wires and machines than before. A good sign. No suicide watch though. He soon found out why - Sherlock groaned in pain even by trying to sit to greet him. No way was he moving out of that bed anytime soon.  
"Alright, take it easy, it's okay," he intuitvely consoled him with, stretching out an arm for support.  
"It's not okay, John," Sherlock mumbled, his voice cracking.  
"I know," he stated, perching himself on the edge of the bed.  
"I knew you'd come. You shouldn't have though. You've done too much for me as it is. It's not in your interests to be continuing this association with me," he retorted. John was struck silent for quite some time as a statue. He fought back his blurry vision once more. (He seemed to be having to do that too much lately).  
"Okay. Is that all you wanted to say?" He asked politely.  
"Pretty much," was the brief answer.  
"Right. Just as well, because I have a few things to say to you, and it might take some time," the doctor proclaimed while surprising the detective by taking his hand - being sure to stay clear of the IV line, of course.  
"Oh. Okay," were the only words Sherlock could seem to conjure.  
"Right. So. I don't know if you remember, but I told you it's all fine. The depression, the sexuality, the autism - everything," he hesitantly started. "I stick by that, Sherlock, mostly. Obviously depression isn't okay, but it's not like you can help it. We can sort it out, seriously. We can. Not just you," he emphasised.   
"There's a confession I need to make Sherlock. I, um, haven't exactly been clear with you. I thought you knew but... perhaps not. Anyway. Basically, I care about you a lot, Sherlock. Probably more than I have ever cared about anyone before. You saved me. And for a moment I thought I couldn't save you. But I can now," he cried, his waterfall finally flowing.  
"What are you saying?" Holmes choked, grasping John's hand tighter.  
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I love you! I have done for so long. I thought you'd figure it out with those amazing deductions of yours, but obviously not," he finally let out. He felt his chest loosen with every word, as if an elephant had been lifted off his chest.  
"Damn. Bisexual?" Sherlock didn't let up on his expectations of himself as a detective, clearly, even when bed-bound.  
"Correct. Listen, if you don't-"  
"I do," he cut in instantly.  
"You don't even know what I was gonna say!" John reasoned, but Sherlock's face told him he knew exactly what was going on.  
"I might not be the best at showing it, but I care about you too John Watson. A lot. So, yes. I do want to be your boyfriend," he stated, staring into his lovers' eyes like they were the stars themselves. In Sherlock's mind, they probably were.  
"Oh. Good." Watson stumbled on his words; he had no idea Sherlock felt this way about him all this time. This conversation should've happened a long time ago, he thought. If only they weren't so bloody frightened.  
"You look surprised."  
"I am surprised. In a good way. Tea?"  
"Yes please," was the glad reply, and with a swift peck on the cheek, the doctor glided out the room. John practically jumped for joy once out of the sight of the detective; happiness was radiating from him, which was duly noticed by the stern nurse from earlier passing by.  
"Good?" He enquired.  
"Yes, thank you," John answered, skipping off to the cafeteria. The thing is, he pondered, when you fall in love with someone like Sherlock Holmes, it seems futile. You wouldn't expect the stars in the night sky to admire you back, would you?

Perhaps one needs to remember you are yourself made of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has made it this far! (I know it's only a short fic, but the statement still stands). Being my first fic, it probably isn't the best, so thanks for supporting it :). I'm thinking about doing a second one, expanding on the autism and depression mentioned - I realise I didn't really talk about it much. Please let me know if you think that's a good idea!
> 
> LeahhJanee xxx :)


End file.
